


Sharing

by harble



Series: Intervals [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bisexual John Marston, Canon Compliant, Drabble, F/M, M/M, Pre-Canon, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-13 10:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harble/pseuds/harble
Summary: Some small voyeuristic drabbles to go with my John/Abigail and John/Arthur stories.





	1. Chapter 1

** 1894 **

 

Night was falling quickly as camp descended in chaos on a chilly December day. Hosea had gone out thieving and come back triumphant, three cases of rum in tow. With Dutch out on some important errand, there was no one to stop Mac from cracking open the first case and passing the bottles around camp. Miss Grimshaw just sat back and watched, a slightly pleased expression on her face.

John observed the activity from afar, crouched at the edge of the clearing. He was supposed to be on guard duty, but no one really kept guard on nights like these. Instead, he was picking brown leaves from the ground and tearing them up, before dumping the shreds from his hands. The air was crisp with winter chill, and a light snow was starting to fall, but everyone seemed in a good mood.

John watched with interest as Arthur sat down on a box near the campfire and winced slightly. John smirked. He should be feeling it today, after what they had done the night before. He never knew Arthur could beg like that, bent over as he was on some rich lady’s counter. They had tied her up, robbed the house thoroughly, then fucked in her spotless kitchen. She probably heard them through the wall. They weren’t exactly quiet.

Abigail approached and settled near Arthur, on another box, and put out her hands, clearly asking for the rum. Both their faces shone pink in the cold. Arthur handed the bottle over with a smile and watched intently as Abigail wrapped her lips around its neck and drank, keeping eye contact as she did. She handed the bottle back and her hand dropped to his thigh. She was flirting, John realized after a few more seconds. Flirting with Arthur.

Part of the reason he was lingering at the edge of camp, not drinking, was her - Abigail. They had bumped into each other in town three days earlier, completely by coincidence. After they rented a hotel room at 11:30 in the morning and avoided the judgmental looks of the hotel owner, after they closed the door behind them and laughed a bit together out of nervousness and pleasure, and after they fucked for the first time - long and slow and almost tender - after all that, John hadn’t paid her, hadn’t even tried. And she hadn’t asked.

So now. Now John Marston, the most sensible person alive, was actively fucking two people out of a group currently comprised of twelve total, other than John himself. It didn’t really make him want to mingle, especially as everyone grew progressively rowdier. He was well on his way to making a right mess of the only family he had ever known. Hell, at this point, he might as well bend Pearson over in the middle of camp, make it an even fourth of the population.

Even as he thought it and laughed to himself, Arthur leaned in and gripped at Abigail’s waist through her coat. John knew how it felt.For both of them. How Arthur started light, then got rougher as he settled in. How his fingers dug in with such satisfying firmness. How they could leave bruises if the two of them got too carried away. And he knew what her waist felt like - soft and sweet, tantalizingly close to the swell of those pretty tits. Abigail laughed at something Arthur said, and John heard it all the way across camp. Something sharp, but not altogether unpleasant, twisted in his gut.

He told Arthur about him and Abigail, of course, almost the very minute he got back to camp from his trip to town. Arthur just laughed at him and drawled, “Women bring their own troubles, John-boy.”

In front of his eyes, Arthur Morgan leaned in and pecked Abigail on the lips. She swayed slightly and giggled, then grabbed the bottle again to take another swig. While she was distracted, Arthur turned his head and met John’s gaze with a knowing grin. John shrank into the tree line, utterly taken aback. Arthur winked at him before dipping in for another kiss, this one longer. Heat bubbled in the pit of John’s stomach. It looked like a good kiss, deep and wanting. Abigail’s hand crept slowly up Arthur’s thigh.

Something about Arthur knowing he was watching, something about him putting on a bit of a show, made John’s head swim and his groin ache.

Before too long, Arthur broke away, patted Abigail on the shoulder, and seemed to say goodbye. He crossed the camp slowly, pausing to joke with Hosea and Grimshaw as he passed. John watched him grab another bottle of rum and duck behind his tent. Abigail, poor thing, looked just as confused as John felt right at that moment.

Davey stumbled up to her, and she smiled, somewhat more automatically than she had been with Arthur. John stopped watching. He didn’t care who solicited her, so long as it wasn’t _him_.

He adjusted his pants, and walked along the perimeter of camp, towards where he had seen Arthur disappear. He couldn’t very well let him drink alone.


	2. Chapter 2

** 1899 **

 

Arthur had never particularly enjoyed skinny dipping; he much preferred the enclosed space of a bathroom if he had to be naked, and scalding water to freezing for getting clean. But sometimes (usually, if he was being honest) it was the best he could get. Hosea and he were scouting a job in Blackwater. It wouldn’t do to be seen there too often, not when he was expected to play the rich out-of-towner for Hosea’s scam. So, no baths lately. Just cold dunks in the Montana river for him.

He emerged from the water, scrubbed and shivering, and pulled on his pants, boots, and gun belt quickly. The spring sun felt good on his shoulders, so he tucked his shirt under his arm and tramped up to camp like that, water still trailing off his back in chilly streams. 

Arthur crossed into camp the back way, taking care not to get shot by whoever was on guard duty. It turned out to be the new guy, Charles, who gave him an unreadable look and lowered his shotgun slowly. Arthur threw him a bashful wave and continued on. As he crossed behind Abigail’s tent (he still thought of it that way even though John’d been back more than a year), a small sound made him stop in his tracks. A sound he knew well - a little too well.

A strangled groan. A very John-ish groan.

_Fuck_.

He grimaced, and considered his options. He wasn’t in clear view of the camp; no one would see him lurking back here - except maybe Charles if he crossed back by. And if he moved, they might hear him. Well, he assumed it was a _they_. It may just as easily have been John alone in there, doing what John did best. He smiled a little at the thought.

No - next moment, he heard a distinctly female answering groan, low and restrained. Then, there it was again. Abigail sounded like she was trying to stay quiet.

For a time - a very brief time when John and Abigail first got together - John used to tell Arthur about her. _All_ about her. That was before they knew about Jack, before she and John were doing anything more serious than passing the time. It was unfamiliar territory for both men (how do you talk about girls with the guy you're fucking twice a week?), but somehow they worked it out. Arthur still remembered the way it used to make him feel to hear John talk, half-bragging, half-confiding. His sharp jealousy always mixed with something Arthur could never quite place - something much sweeter. But that phase hadn't lasted too long. There was something none-too-proper about talking that way about the mother of your child.

Before he could stop himself, for a delirious moment crouched there by the tent, Arthur wished he could see what was happening in there, wished he could be a fly on the wall. See John kiss someone, even if it wasn’t him. See how they touched, see the familiarity that must have built up between them. It might be nice to watch, to take part (in a small way) in someone’s pleasure.  It had been a while since he’d had anyone, or been had by anyone. Too long.

He shook his head hard, even as he heard a strangled “John” from the canvas beside him. He couldn’t keep crouching there, listening to them like some sort of pervert. He took a deep breath and tried not to follow his thoughts to their logical conclusion. 

Tried not to imagine having someone and being had by someone _else_ at the same time.

A terrific scream from across the camp interrupted his spiraling thoughts. He peeked out from the corner of the tent. There was Miss Tilly with Jack in her arms. Jack, that little bastard, wiggled and flailed his small fists, hitting Tilly in the chin. He let out another scream. As he watched, Jack slipped from Tilly’s grip and started to run. Tilly just sighed, waved her hands dismissively, and let him go. He careened toward his parents’ tent and the assuredly traumatic scene just behind the thin flap.

Arthur was immediately glad for the distraction. Without thinking much of anything, just knowing he had to help somehow, he sprang up, hastily pulling his shirt over his shoulders while he bounded towards Jack. He managed to get both arms through the sleeves before he cut the boy off in front of Pearson’s wagon and scooped him up.

“Now, Jack, wha’d’yah think yer doin’?” Jack was so surprised at suddenly being off the ground that he stopped crying entirely. He looked with wide eyes into Arthur’s face. “Mmm-hmm. You know what you’re doin’, don’t you? Mom’s busy. I ain’t seen you be so bad in quite a while. You mighta hurt Miss Tilly.”

The little face pulled into something close to guilt. He looked a lot like John like that, wishing to feel bad but not quite getting there.

“Thas’ alright, Jackie. Let’s find something to do while you wait for mom.” He started to walk across camp. “But you’ve gotta promise to behave a little better.”

“Uncle Arthur,” he reached out and felt his hair, “you’re all wet.”

“Yeh, I was taking a bath until your screamin’ so rudely interrupted.”

“Sorry.” This time he really did look sorry. Arthur smiled and hugged him close.

“’S okay, Jack.” 

Arthur passed where the ladies were and gave Tilly a reassuring wink. He set Jack gently down and nudged him towards his own tent. The boy set off at a skipping run.  Tilly was sitting at the table with Jenny and Mary-Beth, sorting laundry. All three women were looking at him… funny. Heavy-like.

“Ladies?”

He looked down after a moment's silence and realized his shirt was still hanging open, unbuttoned on his chest. Blush quickly burned down his face to his neck. He turned tail and hurried after Jack. Behind him, he heard giggles. He hadn't been so red in quite a while - first the tent, and now this.

In the shade of Arthur's tent, Jack sat cross-legged next to the cot, staring up at him owlishly.

“Can we draw?”

Arthur ruffled his hair and smiled.

“Yes, of course. Of course.”

He buttoned his shirt, then settled down on the ground with Jack so they sat facing each other. Without a second thought, he reached over, grabbed his satchel off his cot, and tore a page from his new journal. He handed it to Jack, along with a short pencil.

The boy smiled up at him, and Arthur Morgan felt his heart melt in his chest, ever-so-slightly.

“I used to know a boy about your age who like to draw, too.” His deep voice cracked a little. Jack’s brown eyes just watched him. “I think you’da’ been friends.”

“Really?”

“Really really, Jackie. Now let’s draw a picture for your momma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I made it sad accidentally there at the end ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
